


soldier soldier

by ataraxistence



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Social Media
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-20 22:43:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9519140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ataraxistence/pseuds/ataraxistence
Summary: In a world where it's vanishingly rare to see an alpha skate competitively at the highest levels, Russian omega prodigy Yuri Plisetsky meets alpha Otabek Altin and is immediately intrigued. They become friends immediately, and along the way, Yuri grows up.





	1. we signed our lives away

**Author's Note:**

> The standard alpha/beta/omega trope tends to assume that omegas are at the bottom of the social totem pole, but I wanted to try a different scenario: what if alphas are the rarest segment of the population? What if they're considered animalistic and lacking in grace, and what if Otabek's pretty much the only alpha figure skater in the elite circles? This fic takes that idea, weaves it in with how Yuri and Otabek meet originally, and runs with it. 
> 
> I am aware that there's some controversy in this fandom because Yuri is fifteen and Otabek is eighteen, and that this age gap makes some people uneasy. I've chosen not to age Yuri up or to set this in the future - rather, I've woven it in as part of the conflict that both of them face in this growing relationship. 
> 
> That being said, Yuri is a teenager who thinks a lot about sex, as we all did and/or do, the two of them will be intimate even if they don't actually have penetrative sex, and the idea of heat is, of course, part of the A/B/O trope. If you think any of this is unacceptable, I'd really rather you not read it. If you want specific details about what occurs in each chapter before you read it, do ping me in a comment and I'd be happy to answer. 
> 
> Thank you! I hope to update this fairly regularly: every two or three days. :)

“Yuri, get on!”

“Eh? You’re– ”

“Ah! It’s Yuratchka!” come the squeals from behind.

“Oh my god – it’s Kazakhstan’s Otabek Altin!”

“Huh?!” Yuri instinctively catches the helmet tossed at him. Yeah, now that he thinks about it – this is the guy who was staring at him yesterday in the lobby of the hotel. The one who medaled last year at the Grand Prix. 

“Are you coming? Or not?” Otabek asks. His expression doesn’t change at all, but Yuri throws caution to the winds – fuck it, he’ll take this over any weird-ass fan-meeting any day – and pulls on the helmet before leaping onto the back of the bike. They ride away to the sound of snaps and screeches behind them, but by then Yuri’s dismissed all thoughts of his anxious fans, because he’s realised something far more interesting:

Otabek Altin’s an _alpha_.

*

“Eh?! I don’t remember that,” Yuri says, surprised at the news that he and Otabek had been at Yakov’s summer camp together five years prior.

“At the time I was in my first year in the junior division, but I couldn’t keep up with the Russian junior skaters. So they put me in the novice class. That’s where I met you. And you had the unforgettable eyes of a soldier,” Otabek says.

“A soldier? Me?” The comparison’s never occurred to Yuri before. There’s something martial about it – it’s not a comparison that would occur to any omega, Yuri thinks, before he dismisses that as unfairly biased thinking. “I’d just moved my home rink from Moscow to St. Petersburg,” he offers, as unspoken recompense for that momentary genderist thought. “I was pretty desperate, but I told myself that I wouldn’t complain till I was good enough.”

“I’d just presented as an alpha,” Otabek murmurs. He’s looking straight out across the Barcelona duskscape with sharp, clear eyes. “Everyone thought it was the end of my skating career, even my coach in Kazakhstan at the time. So I moved around to train instead – from Russia to the US to Canada. I only managed to return to my home rink in Almaty last year.”

 _After the Grand Prix Finals,_ Yuri thinks to himself. Only after he’d proven himself capable of standing on that podium.

“Now, more than ever, I want to win the championship for Kazakhstan,” Otabek continues.

Yuri’s fist tightens for a brief moment, and then he turns to him in full. “Otabek,” he asks, “Why did you call out to me? I’m a rival, aren’t I? And an omega too,” he adds.

“I’ve always thought we were alike,” he says, and for the first moment in the whole conversation, they’re both looking each other full on in the face. Otabek’s brown eyes are clear and clean and don’t have the slightest hint of aggression in them, but Yuri still identifies the feelings in his heart as _fear_ , _terror_ , _elation_ , as Otabek asks, “Are you going to be my friend? Or not?”

The thought of saying “no” never even crosses Yuri’s mind. 

*

At that time he doesn’t realise what it means, of course.

It’s just _fun_ , in a way that hanging out with people has never been before, to sit in a café with Otabek and shoot the breeze. Otabek’s got lots of funny stories about other skaters – including that douchenozzle JJ, whom he’d sometimes shared a rink with in Canada – and it’s made all the better because he tells them with that super-deadpan face. Yuri finds himself, for once in his life, striving to reciprocate: he tells Otabek all the stories about Georgi and Mila and his Russian rinkmates. When he tells Otabek about Mila’s predilection for ice hockey alphas, he pulls out his phone to show him some of the pictures, then as a side note, demands Otabek’s Instagram and adds him on the spot.

“Whoa, you’ve got a whole bunch of bike pictures!” He scrolls quickly through the lot of them. “It’s your bike, huh?”

It’s not the same as the one Otabek’s riding here in Barcelona, which must be a rental. (That makes sense, now that Yuri’s thinking about it, it’s not as though he could’ve brought his bike to the GPF.) Otabek’s Instagram is full of pictures of a sleek, black-with-red accents bike; it looks sleeker and more dangerous than the bike that he’s rented here.

“It’s a Honda CB300F,” Otabek says fondly.

“I’ve no idea what the fuck that means, man,” Yuri answers. Instead of taking offense – and Yuri knows lots of people who would – Otabek just laughs. “It’s a naked bike. It’s no frills and cheap but it’ll get you where you want to go, and quickly.”

“You really like it, huh,” Yuri says. Himself, he can’t imagine riding a motorcycle on a regular basis – what if he has an accident? A broken arm or even a twisted leg could mean the end of his skating career. He’s surprised Otabek doesn’t worry about those things, but then again Otabek seemed like a pretty experienced rider.

“Traffic in Almaty can be pretty bad, and I live pretty far from my rink, so it’s easier to get around,” Otabek explains.

Yuri’s about to commiserate – traffic in St. Petersburg can be a bitch – but they’re interrupted at that point by Victor and Katsudon, trailing Katsudon’s sister and ballet coach.

“Yurio!” Victor calls.

“DON’T CALL ME THAT _,_ ” Yuri bristles, but is interrupted by Victor holding out his phone. “You and Otabek are famous!”

“Of course we are, we’re better ice-skaters than you and Miss Piggy here,” Yuri snaps, but he takes it, heart sinking as he takes in the trending headlines on Twitter:

**KAZAHKSTAN’S ALPHA SKATER OTABEK ALTIN KIDNAPS THE FAIRY OF RUSSIA, YURI PLISETSKY**

**ALPHA ALTIN BIKES OFF WITH PLISETSKY**

**HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN? KAZAHKSTANI ALPHA ALTIN RIDES OFF INTO THE SUNSET WITH FELLOW GRAND PRIX FINALIST PLISETSKY**  

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Yuri growls. “They _really_ have nothing better to do with their time, do they?”

Otabek’s looking at him a little quizzically. “It’s nothing,” he brushes aside. “I’m hungry, what shall we have for dinner?” he demands.

Later at dinner, he takes a snap with all the other skaters and uploads it to Instagram. He captions it _#carbloading before tomorrow’s programme #goldmedal #NOTKIDNAPPED_

He pretends he doesn’t see Victor’s knowing look.

*

Otabek takes him back to their hotel on his bike. Yuri clings a little closer and breathes, deep and slow – he’s never been this close to an alpha before, and the scent – something cinnamon, something something basil, with base notes of musk – is very nice, now that Yuri is close enough to smell it under the generic floral scent of a neutralising body wash. Yuri wonders if all alphas smell like this, or if it’s just Otabek.

He scrunches himself a bit closer on the bike. He’s just holding on tighter – he wouldn’t want to fall, after all.

When they’re back in the hotel, in the lift, on the way up to their respective floors, Yuri makes an impetuous decision.

“Scent me, Otabek,” he demands.

Otabek looks a little taken aback. “Ah – you _do_ know that I’m an alpha, right?” he asks, hesitant for the first time that entire evening.

Yuri scoffs. “As if anyone could miss it! It’s fine, come on – everyone else does it all the time. Victor and Katsudon smell so much like each other you can hardly tell them apart these days!”

Otabek doesn’t say, _that’s because they’re omegas_ , but he doesn’t need to say it, and that makes Yuri prickly with a little resentment and a whole lot of rage on behalf of his friend. Yuri’s never thought about it before – figure skating’s filled with willowy, slender omegas and the very occasional beta like Mila, and friends scent-mark all the time. Back in Russia Mila scented him every time she picked him up, and Lilia, that old-fashioned hag, had made him practice all the formal gestural approaches for scenting used in ballet, while Yakov looked on and nodded approvingly. It doesn’t seem fair that Otabek doesn’t get to do this simply because of his secondary gender. But Otabek still looks really hesitant, and Yuri’s face is starting to heat up from embarrassment at Otabek’s silence.

“Alright, you know what, fine, don’t do it if you don’t want to, I just thought, well, it’d be nice, and friends back home do it all the time and you smell good to me–” Yuri shuts himself up. _Stop babbling_ , _for fuck’s sake, Plisetsky_ , he tells himself. So Otabek doesn’t want to do it. Maybe they’re just less overt about this sort of thing in Kazakhstan, unlike touchy-feely Mother Russia –

“I do,” Otabek’s quiet words cut through Yuri’s internal monologue.

“Then why don’t you,” Yuri hisses. He’s hot with frustration – they’ve barely been friends for half a day, and already they’re quarrelling, what the fuck, well done, Plisetsky. “You know what, forget it–”

“It’s just – not right, for alphas,” Otabek says feebly, as the door pings for Yuri’s floor. It’s not his floor, but he follows Yuri out anyway, trailing forlornly after him.

“Come on,” Yuri dismisses. “It’s not as though you’re going to go berserk and tear up the floor just because you scent an omega, that’s just _dumb_. That’s the sort of shit they say about alphas in dumb third-world places where they don’t know any better– ah _fuck_ , that’s not what I meant, I mean, Russia’s not such a great place either, I get that– Look, do you want to come in? Since you’re here already,” Yuri says, gesturing at the door of his room as an excuse to stop his blabbering.

Otabek follows him in.

“Have you ever had Calpis?" Yuri asks, fumbling a bottle out of the mini-fridge and tossing it at Otabek. "It's good - pork cutlet bowl brings me some from Japan," he adds, and takes a long swig to stop himself from talking anymore. Urgh, verbal diarrhoea much, Plisetsky.

Otabek sits down at the edge of the bed. “I want to, Yuri.”

Yuri flops back onto the bed as well. It's cause he's tired out and exasperated and it's been a day of ups and downs, not cause he's weak at the knees with relief that Otabek still wants to be his friend. He thinks about saying _I've changed my mind, I don't wanna,_ just to be petulant, just cause he doesn't care whether Otabek wants to or not. But in the end he finds himself saying, “Okay,” scrambling up so he's kneeling on the bed, offering his neck with a slow, graceful tilt of his head, exactly the way Lilia taught him. 

Otabek leans in tentatively, gently: he's probably never done this before, not to anyone who isn't family, at least. He brushes his cheek against the scent gland, where jaw meets neckline, then turns to push his nose against it. At first it's nothing more than a light tickle, the daintiest, most tentative brush of skin against skin; then Otabek makes a second pass and inhales more firmly, his breath slow and shuddery against Yuri's skin. He's not touching Yuri otherwise, but Yuri feels Otabek’s hands clenching in the bedspread, slowly but inexorably, wrinkling the fabric with his grip. He doesn't know what to call the feeling that that occasions. It’s not nervousness - but it's something like it; like the clench of one’s teeth before stepping out onto the ice. Yuri's body tenses briefly and instinctively.

Otabek senses it, though, and he backs away, apology stamped across his face. Yuri bites back a snarl and lunges forward instead, catches himself by planting one hand firmly on Otabek's thigh, and then he pushes his nose slowly into that spot on Otabek's neck, occasionally pausing to rub his cheek against it for a bit. 

The smell is wonderful. Briefly, he thinks he should find another alpha, just to run a comparison, but then he discards the thought: Otabek really _is_ the only alpha whom Yuri would feel comfortable doing this to. Slowly, as Yuri inhales and exhales (once, twice), the tension seeps slowly out of Otabek; by the time Yuri's on his fourth inhale, Otabek's dropped his own head a little and is reciprocally scenting Yuri again. 

It's good. It's different from other omegas, like Victor or Katsudon, who always smell kinda vanilla-y, like deep cream or ripe fruit, and it's different from Mila's beta smell, which is like clean hot water, freshly boiled from the kettle. Otabek smells like spices and Christmas fruitcake and minced pies with brandy. It's a good smell, Yuri thinks dazedly, and they edge away from each slowly, reluctant to be done. 

“There!” Yuri falls back onto the bed again with a contented thump. “Now we're properly friends, Beka.” The diminutive feels so right in his mouth.

Otabek hums in soft agreement. 

Yuri grins. “Still going to beat you tomorrow.”

*

Yuri beats him, _and_ Katsudon, and makes history as the first male skater to win the GPF in his debut senior year, but he's still kinda annoyed at himself, because really? 0.12 points? 

And stupid Victor, who’s stolen the show by making his announcement about returning as a competitor.

Next year he is going to whoop Katsudon's fat ass, and Victor's too. He's not stupid - he can already sense the speculation that will come next year: the supercilious sports commentators who will wonder if he's a one-hit wonder, a flash in the pan, who will talk knowingly about mental stress if he chokes and pops a jump, who will applaud Victor Nikiforov's new gold medal, his winning streak "only briefly interrupted" – 

Those commentators are already talking about "the narrowest of margins", and how "down to the wire" it was. The nicer ones say "hard-won", "hard-fought"; the nastier ones say "swayed by Russia's reputation as a powerhouse of figure skating", and "such a subjective judgement". 

It makes him want to shout, or throw something. And it's because he knows, in his heart of hearts, that they're not wrong. It _could_ have been Katsuki Yuuri, and it kills him that he hadn't had a clean win. And if Katsudon retires before Yuri has a chance to destroy him fair and square, Yuri is going to kill him. 

Though admittedly he's oddly comforted by Victor and Katsudon's gooshy performance at the rinkside, not to mention the kiss and cry - not much chance of a retirement after all, he figures. 

His phone buzzes.

It’s Otabek: _Congratulations on your win_.

Fuck, now Yuri feels like a heel. He’s barely given a thought to Otabek’s fourth place finish, and now that he thinks about it, he’s been whining about nothing. Otabek’s the one who’s barely missed that douchenozzle Jean-Jacques Leroy by a sliver, and besides, JJ choked all over his short programme and barely clawed it back at the free, what the hell.

Yuri texts back: _Thanks_ – _you should’ve been up there on the podium with me and katsudon_

 _Next year,_ Otabek says. _Next year I’ll kick your butt._

Yuri snorts, and says so: _-snort-_

Then: _maybe you’ll manage to take katsudon’s second place finish._

Otabek: _they say Victor’s making a comeback?_

_Why – you scared?_

_Never_ , Otabek says. And just like that, the tension bleeds away from Yuri’s shoulders. Otabek is right. If Victor is going to return to competitive skating, then Yuri’s just gonna have to win by skating over his bleeding corpse. And Katsudon’s. He’s the Ice Tiger of Russia. He’s skating’s future. If anyone has to be scared, it’s Victor Nikiforov, who doesn’t know what’s coming for him.

*

Barely a couple of months later, that’s not how he feels any more.

Victor bloody goddamn fuckhead Nikiforov had made a triumphal return to the ice in the Russian Nationals, skating his free to _Si tu vois ma mere,_ because he’s crazy-dopey in love, _damnit_ , charming everyone silly with his smile and his stupid have-you-seen-my-fiancé-isn’t-he-just-the-most-adorable-isn’t-he-just-the-best wobblyface, the longing in his gestures and arms perfectly timed to the music, his quad-flip and his quad-toe-triple-toe combination landed not only cleanly but with exquisite balance and grace. And the worst thing is, being in love has made him _a better skater_.

“It’s because I want to show Yuuri that I’m serious about him, of course.” Even now Victor’ll tell that to any reporters who’ll ask, and they all ask, it’s the fairytale romance of the century. And what Victor won’t tell them is that of course he wants his pork cutlet bowl to succeed, but he also wants to prove that he’s Victor fucking Nikiforov and he’s not going to be beat easy. Because that’s what Yuri wants to do so badly and that’s exactly what didn’t happen.

Yuri had stood next to him on the podium with the silver medal and stewed in his own rage. 

Then, to make matters worse, his start to 2017 had been darkened by the dismal January results of the European Figure Skating Championships, in which he’d _missed the podium_ , for the first time in his career, and all he can do these days is train and train and train and curse his own body for betraying him this late in the game. He’s about to turn sixteen in a few more days and he’s never hated himself more.  

He wakes at 4.34 a.m. with a sudden cramp in his left calf. He jerks awake, startling Plyushka, who leaps off the duvet with an offended yowl before leaping back on and nosing worriedly at Yuri’s shoulder. He’s got his fingers locked around the offending calf, and he’s squeezing down with his teeth clenched because if he lets go of either he’s going to howl from the pain.

When the cramp subsides he lets go, panting lightly. He’s gained an inch and a half in the last three months, and everything’s off now: he can barely get into position for the Biellmann spin, even a basic sit spin is awkward, the butterfly jump goes wrong once in every five tries ( _unacceptable,_ he chides himself), and he doesn’t even want to think about the jumps that used to come so effortlessly.   

He tells himself he’s not going to cry. Instead he texts Otabek: _Beka, you up?_

It’s 7.34 a.m. in Almaty. Of course Otabek’s up. _Running give me 15 min Skype?_

 _Sure_ , he texts back.

He starts to regret it maybe two minutes later, when he’s brushing his teeth. What’s the point of bothering Otabek about it? He doesn’t want to whine. That’s… not worthy of him, of _Beka_ , who thinks of Yuri as a soldier.

But he does want to talk to Otabek. So he logs on to Skype and dicks around on Insta for a bit while waiting for Otabek to come online – likes a bunch of Chulanont’s selfies, trolls Georgi’s latest kissy-face photo with his girlfriend, double-taps a random picture of a cat that looks that Plyushka. When the bubble-notes of Skype’s ringtone begin, he clicks for the video chat –

And his mouth goes dry.

Otabek’s in the middle of swigging a bottle of water from the fridge, standing shirtless at some distance from the laptop so that Yuri gets a clear view of the long, clean lines of his abdominals and the sweat trickling down them. The thermal tights with the 2XU logo leave literally nothing to the imagination.

So, predictably, Yuri says, “You’re so gross, Beka.”

“Mm? I just got back from a run,” Otabek points out quite reasonably. That’s another thing that Yuri likes about him – where another person might have apologised out of politeness, Otabek only ever says what he thinks and takes Yuri’s rudeness in his stride. “Of course I’m gross.”

“Were you running outdoors? Isn’t it freezing?!”

“It’s alright. It’s more interesting than running on the treadmill, and besides, people get antsy when there’s an alpha in the gym with them. How’s your training going?”

“Poorly,” Yuri admits, then scowls to himself. “You should get a private gym membership.”

 _Don’t change the subject,_ says Otabek’s face, although his expression doesn’t actually move an inch. “It’s expensive,” Otabek answers calmly. “I don’t need it anyway.”

“That’s not the point,” Yuri says weakly, but they’ve had this conversation before. It’s not fair that Otabek belongs to that misunderstood 10% of the population, but there’s so little that Yuri can do about it. And in a gym, where sweat and pheromones stink up the place all the time… it’s true that Yuri hates using the gym after the ice hockey team’s been through it – he always waits fifteen minutes for the ventilator to clear it out first. But still. This is _Beka_. “You should come to Russia and train. The ice hockey team shares our training facilities, you’d fit right in. Sometimes we can hear Znarok yelling at them; they screwed up the 2016 championships and only got bronze so he’s riding herd on them now.”

“Sounds tough.” Otabek cracks several eggs into a bowl one-handed, whisking deftly with a fork as he goes. “I’ll see what I can do about coming to St. Petersburg – maybe in the down season, after Worlds.”

“Eggs for breakfast look good,” Yuri mutters, watching as Otabek pours the omelette mix into the frying pan. Just beyond him he can see the warm sunlight of an Almaty morning. St. Petersburg is still pre-dawn grey outside his own window – it’s too early for breakfast, and Yuri really needs to get to the gym and work on his stretches and maybe do Mila’s goddamn yoga routine, but he can hear the faint sizzle of Otabek’s breakfast through their Skype connection and he’s starting to get hungry.

“You need to eat more,” Otabek advises. “There’s no point starving yourself.”

Yuri flushes. “I’m eating fine.”

“You’re growing,” Otabek says flatly.

“And I wish I wasn’t!” Yuri snarls. “This is fucking stupid!”

“It is what it is, Yuri.” Otabek tosses the omelette with a deft, graceful flip. “Look – when I presented as an alpha and started growing I thought it was the end of my skating career. And so did everyone else at the time, except Brian Orser. He said I’d be okay so long as I stuck at it, and he was right. I’m fine now.”

“Better than fine,” Yuri grouses. Otabek is on a strong streak and is strongly tipped to medal at Four Cotninents.

“That’s my point.”

“I don’t want to be tall, goddamnit.” He’s almost as tall as Otabek himself now.

“That’s not a handicap in and of itself,” Otabek points out. “Look at Nikiforov.”

“I know.” Yuri knows he’s sulking, but he can’t bring himself to stop. Yes, Victor’s tall, but he was always going to be tall anyway. Yuri feels like he remembers being a kid and watching Victor get gracefully, gently taller. Logically he knows that probably wasn’t the case – god, he’s seen how hard Victor works himself – but still –

Otabek’s expression softens. “I know it sucks. But it’ll get better, I promise.”

“Grargh,” Yuri says. “Fuck it. I don’t wanna talk about it. I’m gonna go hit the track, Beka. How long was your run?”

“Five km.”

Yuri bares his teeth in a grin. “I’ll do six, then.”

Otabek snorts. “You do that. Speak later, Yuri.”

“Speak later, Beka.” 

“Eat breakfast!” are Otabek’s parting words before Yuri ends the Skype call and gets out of bed to pull on his running tights and shoes.

Later, when he sits down to breakfast – _kasha,_ fruit, sunny side ups – he takes a snap and captions it “breakfast of champions”, then sends it to Otabek.


	2. the only weapon we know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kind reception that this fic has got so far! I'm glad people seem to be liking it. :) 
> 
> In this chapter, warnings for:   
> (a) Spoilers for Fight Club (Otabek and Yuri talk about it)   
> (b) Teenage masturbation (surely you're not surprised by this, ahaha)

“I can come over in June,” Otabek says over Skype.

What Yuri can see of Otabek’s room is always tidy and neat. He always makes his bed and there’re never any clothes strewn around. When Otabek takes a Skype call from Yuri, more often than not, he’s neatly perched in his chair, at his desk, whereas Yuri’s generally sprawled out on his bed, rumpling the bedcovers and occasionally nibbling at a protein bar. Otabek thinks it’s a disgusting habit and has told Yuri so multiple times (“Food doesn’t belong in bed, Yuri”), as a result of which, Yuri is all the more intent on doing it.

He knows he’s a little shit sometimes. 

“That’s fantastic.” Yuri grabs his desk calendar, flipping it quickly open to the right page. “Sounds good – I’ll be back from Moscow by the end of May – oh, can you come in the second week of June, then? How long can you stay for?”

“Anton said he didn’t mind if I stayed for the whole of June so long as Nikiforov or Yakov are willing to keep me in form for a bit,” Otabek replies. “My mother’s birthday is in July so I’m hoping to be back in Almaty by then.”

“Yeah, but don’t come at the start of June – I’ve scheduled my heat cycle for then so I’ll be bad company anyway,” Yuri says, staring in exasperation at the five days marked with big red crosses. “Or, no I tell you what, Beka – you can come on the 5th. I’ll just go off the pill a bit earlier. Then we can have a proper four weeks!”

“That’s… okay?” Otabek says hesitantly.

“What? Yeah – I mean, I’ll clear it with my doctors, but I don’t think there should be any worries.” Heat’s a pain – times like this, Yuri wishes he was a beta instead. He’s in fair company – the prevalence of omegas in skating means that a rinkmate disappearing for a week or so once or twice a year is no biggie, and everyone bands together and brings food and cheesy movies – but the idea of taking even this much time out of training just as he’s starting to get used to this new, taller, leaner, more muscled, hairier body annoys the shit out of him. Lucky Mila.

“What’s it like?” Otabek asks, tentative. 

“What, heat?” Yuri asks. “It’s not really that interesting. Isn’t it like rut for alphas? You just get really horny.”

“No,” Otabek answers, and his face is more serious than usual. “Rut for alphas is… I don’t know – it’s like you could run forever, you know? And, I mean, what they say about alphas is true. I – I get aggressive. The first time I had a rut when I was fourteen I broke someone’s arm.”

“Whoa, that’s fucking cool,” Yuri gasps, although there’s a little shudder of nervousness in his belly at hearing this particular stereotype of alphas – violent, angry, _animalistic_ _–_ confirmed, and from the horse’s mouth nonetheless.

But still… this is _Otabek_. Yuri can’t quite imagine him that way.

“Did he deserve it?” Yuri asks.

Otabek flushes. “Yes.”

“Well, then,” Yuri says decisively. That settles it, obviously – Otabek’s not that kind of guy. “So what do you do now? Join a fight club?” he asks teasingly – when they’d talked in Barcelona, they’d discovered a mutual love for that old movie. Yuri likes it for the crazy anarchy and the plot to blow shit up; Otabek likes it for the twist of two separate personalities in one person’s body.

It says a lot about the two of them, I suppose.

The look on Otabek’s face is 110% surprise – probably at the idea that Yuri isn’t asking him more about the broken-arm story. Yuri resists the urge to preen a little. He’s going to wait till Otabek feels comfortable with telling him the story instead, because that’s clearly what _friends_ do.

“Rule number one,” Otabek says, his face settling into a slight but definite grin:

“You do not talk about Fight Club,” they chorus together. Yuri laughs and Otabek’s grin gets the teensiest bit wider. Yuri thinks he should not find that as rewarding as he does. 

“I go out to the countryside or the mountains for rut, and I hike like fifteen miles a day and – and jerk myself off at night–”

Otabek’s blushing – it’s hilarious, Yuri thinks, he can be such a prude sometimes. But that’s pretty interesting: “Really? It’s kinda the opposite for omegas, I guess. You want to fuck, sure, but mostly you’re also kinda lazy and you don’t want to leave home?”

It makes Yuri kinda shameless. The first time he went into rut (the previous year) he’d stripped himself naked and made a big pile of throw cushions and pillows smack in the middle of the flat and spent most of the days alternately flipping channels on television and furiously masturbating in every room of the house, in between breaks for food and cake. To be entirely honest he’s quite looking forward to it – a medically sanctioned reason to take a break and do literally fuck all (heh) – even though he’ll have to train twice as hard after to make up for it – not to mention for his inordinately poor performance at Worlds this year. Yakov’s strict on him, no matter Yuri’s growing pains, and Yuri’s even stricter on himself. But Otabek will be in St. Petersburg by then and then they can train together. The thought is inordinately cheering.

“Huh,” Otabek replies, clearly thinking about it.

“Hiking sounds good, though,” Yuri says. “I’ve heard the mountains are really great in Kazakhstan.”

“Yeah, but when you’re in rut – well. I’m not really in any state to notice them properly, I guess?”

“That sucks,” Yuri commiserates. “Well, go sometime when you’re _not_ in rut. We should go hiking together or something! Oh man no we should go to Lake Baikal next year in the down season, after Pyeongchang!”  

“Sounds good.”

“Alright, cool. Send me your flight deets when you’ve got them, okay? I’ll come get you from the airport. See you soon, Beka.”

*

The 4 p.m. sunshine is warm and full on his back, like some living creature lying heavy on him. His hair tickles briefly, but not enough for Yuri to bother to do anything with it - it spills across his pillow in an untidy tangle. He’s lying on his front, with his face turned to the side, and the apartment is quiet in the St. Petersburg afternoon. The sound of his own soft panting seems very loud, and the rustle of the sheets as he rubs himself against them even louder.

He’s making a mess: there’s slick and lube everywhere and he’s too lazy to even touch himself properly now, simply pushing his hips against the bed for the pressure of it, his legs spread wide, his knees barely braced. It’s the third day of his heat and it feels… pretty wonderful. Better than last year, now that the urges aren’t as unfamiliar; he’s been lazing about and eating and jerking off and fingering himself and it feels so unusually _freeing_ to be doing this in the middle of the day, knowing that the whole of St. Petersburg is out there industriously working while Yuri lies here and touches himself idly. Yuri turns the other cheek and pushes it against the pillow just to feel the softness and coolness of the cotton.

As he lies there, a soft sense of mischief steals over Yuri, and he fumbles for his phone, smirking to himself. He unlocks it and takes a quick snap: nothing risqué, nothing that would really get him in trouble with Yakov or Lilia, or god forbid, Victor the Shameless, but just his face in side profile, flushed, his neck bowed slightly off the bed, offered to the viewer, the barest hint of a bare shoulder.

 _Taking a break from the ice this week_ , he captions, and tosses the phone aside. The fangirls will go mad for it, he figures, and if it scandalises some old fogey of a sports commentator who will comment on the ruination of Russian youth these days, so much the better. He returns to the task of paying attention to himself, flopping onto his back and letting his knees fall open, shivering as the air touches the skin of his inner thighs, already damp with his own slick.

Snapchat sends him a notification.  

_Otabek Altin – Screenshot!_

The fuck?!

Yuri’s first instinct is to wonder if Otabek took the photo to laugh at him – but no, that’s not Otabek’s way of doing things. He leaves one hand trailing lightly between his legs and grabs his phone again:

_Wtf beka screenshot?!!!_

The reply isn’t long in coming.

_Why not?_

Why not indeed, Yuri wonders, momentarily thrown by that straightforward question. Why not, if Beka wants to save a photo of Yuri’s flushed face, caught in a half-gasp for the camera? He _wants_ to be looked at – that’s why he’d put that picture online in the first place. But Beka? But why not?

 _Because it’s you, and that’s weird_ , he thinks of saying, but he doesn’t send it, because, well, if Otabek’s next line is _why is it weird that it’s me?_ then Yuri has fuck-all answers to give him. _Eh, whatever you like,_ he sends instead.

Otabek doesn’t say anything.

Yuri rolls over again, concentration already shot. _God, what the hell, what’s up with that, Beka_ , he thinks hazily to himself. He pushes a finger into himself and gasps softly at the sensation. He wonders if Otabek’s doing something similar, because, really, what else could he have saved the picture for?

 _Ah, god, mm –_ Yuri pushes in another finger and clenches down on himself, moaning low and loud into the pillow. He won’t deny that he’s thought about the other skaters in the senior division, but never properly with intent. You can hardly blame him for fantasising – Yuri’s a healthy sixteen surrounded by a whole bunch of bodies in peak condition all the time. Barring Victor and Mila and Georgi and his rinkmates because that would just be weird – hell, sometimes he thinks about what _Katsudon_ must be like in bed with Victor (ack don’t go there don’t think about Katsuki instead), wonders what kind of face Katsuki Yuuri would wear when stripped down to the nothing of skin-to-skin _eros_ , or thinks about Chris Giacometti, that’s not hard, that man was made to be thought about, or even Katsudon’s Thai friend, Chulanont, who poses on Instagram wearing that gorgeous kissy doe-eyed face all the time, but not really – not really –

God, _Beka,_ Yuri thinks, and squeezes his eyes shut, pushing in a third finger, uncaring of the slight burn and stretch. It’s dirty and delicious and so _strange_ , because he’s never really seen Beka that way before, and now it’s like he can’t stop thinking along those lines all of a sudden. Suddenly he thinks about Beka crowding him in the locker rooms, pushing Yuri up against the wall, thinks about watching Beka fry eggs shirtless in the morning, thinks about getting to his knees for him, thinks about a warm, firm hand in his long hair, pushing him down into the mattress and shoving _in_ , thinks about, oh god, about getting fucked, and Beka’s _an alpha_ , how has Yuri never thought about this before –

He thinks about Beka _knotting_ him and comes with a trembling shout, collapsing against the sticky mattress.

*

Heat is pretty good, Yuri thinks to himself, ensconced on a plastic chair at Pulkovo Airport and waiting for Otabek. Even now the last moments of it are still trembling down his spine, the lassitude of having done nothing but sleep and eat and get himself off for the last four days still making him boneless and loose-limbed, slumped over and waiting for Otabek to find him. He’d texted to say he’d landed fifteen minutes ago, but baggage and arrivals always took forever.

Yuri stretches and does a quick spinal twist to the side, feeling a couple of vertebrae pop into realignment. Lilia would kill him if she could see his posture now, he thinks, and smirks to himself. Well, good that she’s not around, then.

“Yurio, you need to sit up straight!”

Ah, hell.

“The fuck, Victor? I told you to go away!”

“I got you something to eat, here!” Victor hands him a ham and cheese sandwich, which Yuri grudgingly takes. “You get grouchy when you haven’t eaten, huh.”

“Shut up,” Yuri mutters around a mouthful, but his heart’s not in it. He finishes the sandwich in four bites and shuts his eyes. Unbidden, his mind drifts back to –

Now that he’s not quite as hormone-addled, Yuri’s a little horrified and a little amused by himself – it was a bit nuts to get off to the thought of Otabek, and he’d spent a while feeling kinda guilty, but in hindsight, he’s not so bothered. Everybody’s a little crazy in heat. Yuri’s determined not to beat himself up for it, or to let it be weird between him and Otabek.

“Dial it down a little,” says Victor.

“What?!” Yuri snaps, eyes flashing open.

“Everyone can guess what you’re thinking about, Yurio – it’s written all over your face. Save it for when your alpha gets here,” Victor teases.

Yuri’s entire face flares red. “He is _not_ my alpha,” Yuri hisses.

“Could have fooled me,” Victor grins. “Ah, young love,” he adds smarmily.

“He is _not._ Beka is my _friend_ ,” Yuri emphasises, glaring.

Whatever Victor’s about to say is interrupted by a shout of “Yuri!”

“Otabek!” he shouts, and jumps up and runs over to where Beka is, coming out of the terminal with a teddy bear under one arm. “I’ve been waiting for AGES, where’ve you been?”

He skids to a halt in front of Otabek, and god, isn’t this different: they’re really the same height now, both of them staring each other in the eye. It’s awkward for a moment, and then Yuri decides, what the fuck, fuck it, and gives Otabek a huge hug around the midriff. “It’s so good to see you, Beka.”

“Hey,” Otabek greets softly. “It’s good to see you too.” And he wriggles his arms against Yuri’s hold and rearranges them into a proper hug. Yuri luxuriates in it for a moment, and then he pushes his cheek against Otabek’s scent gland, breathing into it and picking that cinnamon-and-spices scent back up. Otabek does the same after the barest moment of hesitation. “You smell a little different, Yuri.”

“Must be the heat,” Yuri says distractedly, angling his face better to nose at the tender spot on Otabek’s neck. “’S not bad, is it?”

“No, it’s not bad,” Otabek reassures him. “Just… smells warm. A little bit smoky.”

The moment doesn’t last, though – Otabek stiffens up and disengages from Yuri a little as footsteps approach. “Hello, Victor.”

“Hey! Don’t mind me,” Victor says, grinning at the two of them. “I’m just here to drive the car, because our little Yuratchka here can’t. Welcome to St. Petersburg, we’re glad to have you.”

Otabek disentangles himself to politely hold out a hand in greeting. “Thanks for coming to get me – I’m sorry to put you to so much trouble.”

Laughing, Victor takes his hand and gives it a firm shake. “You’re so formal! Don’t be. Let’s go – you must be hungry, aren’t you?”

And as Victor leads the way, chattering a mile a minute, Yuri shoulders Otabek aside and grabs his luggage for him, and trails behind them all the way, content just to have Otabek there.

*

His Russian rinkmates take to Otabek as well as they did to Katsudon: better, perhaps, because Otabek speaks Russian. Georgi takes Otabek to all the bars that he won’t take Yuri to, and regales Otabek with stories of his romantic misfortunes. Victor takes Otabek to all the bars that he _will_ take Yuri to (despite the fact that Yuri is, technically, underage.) The ice hockey team adopts Otabek like a long-lost Kazakhstani brother and takes him on long training runs with them around St. Petersburg. They go out and eat steak together. Znarok starts making disapproving noises about how Otabek is wasted on skating, and this culminates in a rinkside shouting match between him and Yakov while Otabek helplessly tries to point out to them that he’s not actually going to be in Russia for much longer. Mila corrals a bunch of the junior female skaters and she whistles at Otabek whenever he’s skating or working out in the gym, causing the girls with her to break out into excited giggling whenever Otabek blushes at their attentions.

“Quit it,” Yuri tells her at one point, rolling his eyes.

“But he’s so _easy_ ,” Mila laughs. “And besides, little Natalya really likes him, you know.”

Yuri snorts. “Natalya is like, twelve.”

“Fourteen, actually,” Mila corrects. “She’ll make her senior debut soon.”

“Still small,” Yuri dismisses.

“Ah, how quickly they grow up,” Mila says. It’s no small sorrow to her that after his growth spurt, Yuri’s effectively become too tall and heavy to lift properly. “Natalya’s old enough to know that Otabek’s attractive.”

“I guess,” Yuri says nonchalantly.

“You don’t think so? I’d bang that.” Mila jerks her chin at Otabek, who’s lazily skating simple step sequences on the ice. He’ll do that for about ten minutes or so, Yuri knows, and then he’ll bang out like ten tries at a serious jump like a quad toe or a triple axel without warning, and then it’ll be back to the easy things for a ten minute cool-down. Yuri’s not used to that kind of drill-based practice for jumps, preferring to work consistently on routines, but he can’t deny that it works for Otabek.

For a moment, as he watches his friend, Yuri sees him through Mila’s eyes: tall, dark, serious-faced and serious-minded, good-looking in a solid, grounded way that the high-strung Russian omegas around her aren’t. Victor is elegance personified, and Yuri himself still relies on the kind of fae beauty that Lilia beat into him just last year, which he’s chosen to intensify by continuing to wear his hair long, but Otabek’s _handsome_ in a way that’s actually –

“He’s _your type_ , isn’t he,” Yuri hisses, finally realising it. Otabek’s an _alpha_ , and Mila’s slept with the three better-looking ones on the hockey team, how has Yuri not realised this earlier? “Mila!”

She simply throws him an amused look in response. “As I said: I’d bang that.”

“No!” Yuri snarls. “Keep your mitts off him, you terrible old hag!”

Mila makes a small _hnnnn_ noise of amused suspicion. “You’re very adamant about that, Yuratchka,” she teases. “Is someone jealous, then? Victor thinks he’s your alpha, you know.”

Yuri rolls his eyes. “He is _not_ my alpha, but he _is_ my friend, Mila. Don’t you go traumatising him.”

“I’m hardly going to _traumatise_ him,” she purrs. “Is that what you younglings are calling it these days?”

“Urgh, stop it, you’re so fucking gross. He’s not interested anyway.”

“That’s what _you_ think.”

“He’s not!”

“You know,” she murmurs, resting her chin in her palm and looking pensively at Yuri, “For someone who says that Otabek isn’t his alpha, you sure _are_ possessive, Yuratchka. You even scent him. The ice hockey boys tease him about it.”

Stung, Yuri bends on the pretext of tightening his skates a bit more. “Look,” he mumbles. “Beka’s my first _real_ friend, you know? No, look – ” he holds up his hand to forestall her protest. “I know you and Victor and Katsudon are my friends too. But that’s cause, I dunno, we’re rinkmates and you see me all the time and look, I dunno, you’re really super annoying so I have to put up with you _anyway,_ old hag. But Beka’s different. We became friends because he asked. So I don’t want you to try and sleep with him and make things weird because then what if he never wants to come visit again?”

He finishes redoing his laces and looks up. Mila’s still got the same pensive look on her face. “I know what you mean, Yuratchka.

“But–” she pauses, then forges on: “Are you sure it’s _me_ we’re still talking about?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be away till the 9th of February, so it's unlikely that I'll be able to update this before then, but know that I will continue working on this and I will do my best to have the third chapter up and ready ASAP! Thank you for all your support. Leave some kudos if you liked it, and I adore and appreciate comments! <3


	3. the path of most resistance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yuri and Otabek take their relationship a little further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for having taken so long! Life got in the way, bah! 
> 
> In this chapter, warnings for:  
> (a) Teenage boys kissing. Yuri makes a move on Otabek because he is a horny teenager.

Otabek does very… martial routines, Yuri thinks, is the closest word for it.

His theme for this year is “discipline” – and it shows in his skating. He skates to Verdi’s Grand March, from _Aida_ , and Yuri watches from the sidelines, his heart in his throat as Otabek moves perfectly in time to the strong, warm brasses, his edgework absolutely perfect.

One thing that’s caused a stir on the ice this season: Otabek’s wearing a sleeveless shirt.

Otherwise it’s entirely impeccable, even conservative. He’s wearing an all-black outfit (even the applique and crystal details are black-on-black) that’s slim-cut, with vaguely military lines; Yuri can name, off the top of his head, a dozen other costumes that are miles more flamboyant, including some of his own, and certainly a dozen of Victor’s, including that scandalous mesh outfit that Yuri himself wore for _Agape_. But the standard rules for ice dance explicitly state that men’s costumes should not be sleeveless, and figure skating has always followed accordingly, even if it’s not something they’ve explicitly banned. He wonders how the judges will take this, and why Otabek’s done this.

But that’s a stupid question. He knows why Otabek’s done it – it both enhances and subtly rebels against the theme he’s got going on. It’s a gentle little pushback against the very idea of discipline and submission to authority that Otabek’s programme is ostensibly about, a clever little ironic nod – that much is obvious. That’s the intellectual rationalisation, anyway.  

But in his heart of hearts, Yuri can’t help but think it’s actually because Otabek has _great arms_.

It’s hard not to feel a little self-conscious, watching Otabek’s biceps tense as he raises his arm to enter the quad toe, the response of the trapezius muscles in the shoulders as he flares both arms for balance. When Otabek clenches his fist to the crash of cymbals from the music Yuri can see the crowd visibly swooning. And no wonder – Otabek’s style isn’t something that’s common in figure skating, and that makes it surprising and more than a little compelling.

 He waits for Otabek to finish his routine - Yuri's own is already safely over. Then he politely waits for him to finish at the kiss and cry – Yuri’s still in first place, but Beka is a very respectable 0.68 points behind him only – and goes to the locker rooms to look for him. “Hey,” he greets. “What's up with the outfit, then?” 

Otabek grins a little ruefully. “I figured I'd play to the stereotype.”

“What, the alpha thing?”

“Yeah.”

“Sleeveless suits you,” Yuri admits. “Certainly wouldn't work on me.”

“Really?” Otabek gives him a once-over. “I think you'd look pretty good in anything.”

“My arms aren't as nice as yours,” Yuri dismisses. “It wouldn't work on me.” 

“Not this kind of sleeveless, maybe,” Otabek concedes. “But I can't imagine anyone objecting if you show a little more skin.”

Yuri looks up at that, startled: it's not so much what Otabek’s said as the tone of voice he says it in. There's something low and charged in it, and that's not something he's heard from Otabek before. “Beka-” he starts, and then stops again, confused as to what exactly he’s supposed to say. Otabek’s expression is oddly intent, and suddenly Yuri becomes aware that his face is awfully close. “Beka - wait - are you going to _kiss_ me?!”

“Yes,” Otabek answers simply, and Yuri has just enough time to think, _oh, so_ that's _what it is_ before Otabek’s mouth is on him, warm and curling at the corners with a smile that Yuri feels rather than sees. Yuri’s first inane thought is that Otabek's lips are a little chapped; he could use some lip balm, and then he discards that in favour of an all-caps fanfare of WE’RE KISSSING WE’RE KISSING WE’RE KISSING WHAT WHAT WHAT

Then even _that_ inane series of capslock thought dies away as Otabek’s tongue flickers lightly against his lips, and Yuri’s not stupid, okay, he gets this. He focuses on reciprocating, shuts out the noise of his own stupid brain. He slides his hand up the line of Otabek’s spine, lingers at the nape of his neck, tilts his head for a better angle, and oh, this is surprisingly rewarding, this is _great_ –

He startles slightly when Otabek’s hand comes up to touch his face, but recovers and leans into the landing, and this startling new type of pleasure ramps up a notch when Beka brings his hand down to rub the backs of his fingers against that tender, sensitive spot on Yuri’s neck.

Vaguely, he registers that Beka’s begun to purr, that atonal rumble that’s one of the alpha behaviours that Yuri’s heard about but never experienced firsthand. It’s reassuring, a subtle gesture of dominance and pleasure, and some answering part in Yuri’s inordinately happy that he’s managed to please this alpha, who smells nice and tastes even better and kisses like warm chocolate pastries right out of the oven –

The sound of the applauding crowd breaks them apart: Korea’s Lee Seung-gil has finished his free skate, and that’s the last skater for the day, then. “Beka,” he says a little unsteadily, “They’ll be looking for us.”

Otabek actually honest-to-goodness _growls_ , a low rumble of animalistic irritation that sends a little jolt of arousal through Yuri. It’s so unlike Beka. Something in Yuri is thrilled that _he’s_ the one to bring it out. “I don’t care.” He nuzzles at Yuri’s jawline, licks the spot on his neck. Yuri gasps a bit, and then resists, gathering his scattered thoughts.

“Beka, no, really – we have to go.”

“You have no idea how you look.” Otabek leans in and nips his bottom lip, quick as lightning. “You have no idea how you looked out there on the ice, how you look now, how red your mouth is, god, Yuri –”

“Later,” Yuri promises, a thrill running through him. “Later – I’ll text you, Beka.”

Otabek draws back then, visibly restraining himself. Fascinating, Yuri watches as he brings his face under control, his expression smooth and clear and calm once more, the only hint of what they’ve just been doing the slight swell of his mouth. “Later, then.”

They don’t discuss it, but by unspoken agreement, they leave separately, Yuri first. On the way he catches sight of himself in a convenient mirror, and god: who’s that looking back at him? He barely recognises himself: his hair slightly tousled, his mouth red and wet, the colour high in his cheeks, and an unfamiliar, excited gleam in his eyes –

Yuri smiles to himself and smooths his hair a bit, continuing back out to where they’ll announce his place on the podium.

*

He spends the whole banquet antsy. Natalya, who’s here for her last year in Juniors, notices him pacing around the room, once, twice, and worriedly asks him if everything’s alright. Yuri brushes her off with a curt “Yeah everything’s fine,” which telegraphs _leave me alone_ as loudly as if he’d shouted it; she blanches and scurries off, but as Yuri’s surrounded by reporters and sponsors all wanting to know what he thinks of his chances of making the Grand Prix Final (stupid question) and winning (even stupider question), he notices her talking to Otabek.

He’s consoled by the fact that he knows Otabek’s looking at him just as much, because he keeps catching Otabek’s gaze. He knows it’s not because Otabek doesn’t want to talk to him: it’s just that Otabek’s being pestered by his own crowd of hangers-on and reporters, all of them asking him goddamn variations on what it feels like to be the only alpha at this level of competitive skating, which is just the stupidest question. And it’s not because they’ve asked him a million times already, although that’s already pretty dumb. It’s because Otabek is wonderful and diplomatic and is never going to give them the real answer that they all want to hear from him. Sometimes Yuri wants to lean over and shout it for him:

It’s isolating, and difficult, and all you pricks-for-brains make it worse for him because you write shit talking about how his form and balance is so good _for an alpha_ , as if he weren’t just bloody great, full stop, seriously, have you seen that omega douchebag from Canada and his shitty footwork? And you don’t give him enough credit for his jumps, because oh, you think an alpha has more power, excuse me, what are the rest of us, chopped liver? And he works twice as hard without half as much support as some people I could tell you about, cough, like that omega douchebag from Canada, cough fucking cough. And guess what, he’s the silver fucking medalist here and you should really show some goddamn respect before I come over there and show you respect on my fucking _fists_ , you asshole, take that microphone out of his face and give him some breathing room. And yeah, moron, yeah you over there – of course it’s tough going. You try being the only representative of your gender at anything, see if it makes _you_ feel weird, shitface –

And the worst part is that Otabek is never going to say anything even remotely like that to them, and Yuri’s not going to fuck things up for him by saying all that. Beka never even complains to Yuri, just keeps going. _He’s_ the one who’s the soldier: stoic and strong even in the face of all that pressure, Kazakhstan’s hopes riding on his shoulders for Pyeongchang 2018.

Earlier that year, Otabek had confided in Yuri that they might make him the flagbearer. And even though Beka had said it quietly, nonchalantly, Yuri’s not fooled at all: the thought of that much honour makes Beka’s eyes shine.

“Alright, I’m done here, I need air and food!” Yuri shouts, tired of all the buzzing busies trying to talk to him. “OI! Beka! Let’s go get food!”

Otabek takes the reprieve, so sorry, what can you do, thank you for your time, apologies, yes, and Yuri hauls him off to get pizza and cocktail sausages on little sticks from the buffet table, and the vultures find someone else to talk to. Probably Ashley Wagner, so that they can bother _her_ about what it feels like to be one of the oldest women still on the ice. Yuri hopes she tears them a new one. Ashley’s feisty.

They scoff down pizza in silence. Yuri eats a quite acceptable slice of quiche at a more sedate pace and gulps a quick glass of champagne – just one, because hey, gold medal. And he’s Russian – he’s _allowed_ , and to hell with what anyone says. And more interestingly…

He slants a look at Otabek. “Shall we?”

Otabek just nods and follows as Yuri leads the way.

In the lift, on the way up to Yuri’s floor, they don’t look at each other. That doesn’t change the fact that Yuri’s hyperaware of Otabek’s presence beside him, forcibly reminded of a different moment, from almost a year ago now.

“Otabek,” Yuri murmurs, coming to the same decision he’d made a year ago, “Scent me.”

No hesitation this time – Otabek’s eyes flash as he looks up at Yuri this time. God, his pupils are dilated. “Not here.” _Yes_.

There’s someone walking down the corridor when he and Otabek get off the lift – one of the American ice dancers, Yuri thinks vaguely, Shibutani, maybe? – and so Yuri forces himself to walk sedately when all he wants to do is break into a sprint.

His door’s only five metres down the corridor but it seems like eternity.

The damn door resists his keycard the first time and he has to swipe twice.

But then he’s got the damn door open and it’s closing behind them.

Yuri turns to say something but he never gets it out, never knows what it is – Otabek bears down on him and sweeps him up in both arms and half-carries, half-drags him the remaining three steps to bed, already kissing him hard and frantic.

It’s all Yuri can do to give back as good as he gets; he gasps as the backs of his knees hit the mattress and he sits down abruptly; Otabek kneels on the bed next to him and presses his mouth to the scent gland in Yuri’s neck. He nibbles at it a little and Yuri makes a little wounded noise because _ah_ that feels really _good_ , fuck –

“Don’t – don’t leave a mark,” he manages to gasp out, because he really doesn’t want to have to explain this to Mila or Victor, and god forbid _Yakov_ sees.

“I wouldn’t!” Otabek lifts his head, looking a little hurt but also a little dazed, a little punch-drunk just on how Yuri smells, and isn’t that just the headiest kind of power?

“I know,” Yuri soothes nonsensically. “Just saying.” Why are they talking anyway? He inches a bit closer and Otabek takes the hint and goes back to lavishing attention on Yuri’s neck and face, soft kisses and nibbles and hints of tongue. God, he’s _purring_ again, Yuri thinks, and there’s a little answering twist in his gut as Yuri thrills to the deep sound of it. It makes him want to arch his back and _present_ for this alpha. It makes him want to show Otabek how good Yuri can be for him.

“God, Beka, that sound drives me crazy,” he says, laughingly, breathlessly, and Otabek chuckles softly before diving back in and kissing him again and again, long, lazy kisses because they have all night ahead of them to sit here and kiss and nuzzle. Otabek purrs again, louder, more consciously this time, and Yuri’s dick gives a little leap in his trousers: god, he’s already so hard.

He gets a little closer, starts trying to climb into Otabek’s lap, one hand creeping up Otabek’s thigh to the bulge in his pants, only to surprised when Otabek holds him back. “Beka, what?”

“We can’t, Yuri,” Otabek says.

“The fuck we can’t– ”

“You’re only sixteen!”

“Age of consent’s sixteen,” Yuri says flippantly. “That’s nothing, Beka, come on. Kiss me.” And he kisses Otabek and lets his hand stroke Beka’s muscled thigh and gets to feel smug and pleased with himself for all of the next minute before Otabek breaks away _again_ when Yuri starts trying to squeeze closer again.

“Beka, come _on_ ,” Yuri groans. “Don’t be a prude!”

“I’m not!” Otabek answers indignantly. “It wouldn’t be right. You haven’t done this before!”

“Who says?” Yuri snorts.

“Please!” Otabek has the temerity to laugh at him. “You’d have told me if you had!”

“…maybe I didn’t want to tell you!” Yuri says, sulking. “Stop laughing!”

“Fine, fine!” Otabek pulls him closer but settles him in a distinctly chaste hug, tucking their upper bodies together but otherwise keeping scrupulously separate. “Look, Yuri – I – I haven’t either, alright.”

“What?! But you’re _nineteen_!” Otabek’s had three whole years ahead of Yuri – well, two whole years and four months – to find someone who’ll bang him, and he _hasn’t_?

“No one’s been interested, I guess,” Otabek muses, nuzzling Yuri’s ear.

“Bullshit. When you were around over the summer everyone wanted a piece of you!” Yuri points out.

“And I’ve been busy with training, you know?”

Huh. “Yeah, that I get, I guess,” Yuri concedes reluctantly. “So you don’t wanna, huh.”

“Not now,” Otabek murmurs.

“Fuck, I can’t believe we’re both virgins,” Yuri grumbles. “You’re such a loser, Beka – Victor lost his when he was sixteen!”

“Not everything’s a competition with Nikiforov, you know.”

“That’s not the point!” Except it kinda is? Heh. “Let’s go back to kissing, then,” he decides. That’s nice, at least. And Beka’s happy to oblige, and they end up curled together in bed, kissing and scenting and rubbing noses for what feels like hours and is quite possibly actually hours, and Yuri’s neglected hard-on’s just gonna have to wait for later. 

“Just so you know I’m going to jerk off to this later,” Yuri says, just because he’s a total jerk (heh) and it’s hilarious to watch Beka go bright red with embarrassment. “Dude, we’re both dudes. You’re going to get off too, aren’t you?”

“Shut up,” Otabek mutters.

“Make me,” Yuri challenges, and grins as Otabek turns to him and bears them both down to the mattress, laughing.

*

Yuri medals again at Skate America, but in second place – behind Katsudon, goddamnit, who has added a _quad loop_ to his programme, and is going to the GPF this year as the odds-on favourite for winning _both_ his qualifying events, since he’d claimed gold at the NHK trophy as well.

For someone who was going to retire, the fucking pork cutlet bowl is having a fantastic year, even without bloody Victor by his side. Even skating to a programme themed around something as boring as _commitment_ , barf.  

And Victor has the bloody gold medal from the Rostelcom, of course, because god forbid he lose on home ground, but there had been that big upset with the Czech skater, Emil Nekola, winning the Trophee de France out from under Victor’s surprised, aristocratic nose. 

He Skypes Otabek from Lake Placid, grouchy as hell. Otabek’s uncharacteristically pissed as well – how can you tell, someone else might ask, but Yuri gets Otabek by now. His silences mean more to Yuri now. And Yuri’s uncharacteristically trying not to bitch too much about his loss to bloody Katsudon, because Otabek’s squeaked in on his silver medal behind Yuri and a fourth place in Rostelcom, dead last in the field of six.

“It’ll be good to see you, at least,” Yuri admits. Somehow it’s easier to say something like that to Beka, even as ghooshily sentimental as it sounds, than to confess that he’s really running the odds back and forth in his mind. It’s a tight field this year. Chulanont’s still not a threat – he’s only got two quads in his programme, his base score is too far off even if he’s a great showman on the ice. But Victor’s a seasoned four-quad jumper, and Katsudon’s really amped things up lately, much as Yuri would rather die than say it to his face. Nekola’s been doing lots of quads since last season, and though Yuri doubts his consistency as a competitor, anyone who can overtake Victor even once is worth watching. And besides, Yuri’s still all too keenly aware that he himself’s still off his game, still re-learning his body. Worlds was shit. At three quads, Beka’s behind most of the field in terms of potential base scores, that much is just true, but he does the hard quads and Yuri knows it won’t take much – all it takes is one error, one bad landing, or, fuck no, one popped jump.

“I miss you too, Yuri,” Otabek says, and Yuri flushes.

“How can you just _say_ shit like that?”

“It’s true.” Otabek shrugs nonchalantly, like what he’s saying is nothing at all.  

“We should go out and have dinner when we get to Osaka,” Yuri says, changing the subject.

Otabek looks at him consideringly. “Really?”

“What? Yeah, and none of the other skaters this time, not like that bullshit last year with Katsudon and Victor getting engaged.”

“Mm, okay. I’d like that.”

“Yeah, alright. Hey – I’m gonna go to sleep now, okay? It’s been a pretty long day.”

“You do that,” Otabek says. “Goodnight, Yuri.”

“Night, Beka,” Yuri replies. He hangs up the Skype call, and gets ready to go to bed, but even as he brushes his teeth and pulls on a t-shirt to sleep in, he can’t help but feel that he might’ve missed _something_ about that conversation. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your support, guys! I'm bad at replying to comments but I read and cherish every one of them, I assure you. Leave some kudos if you liked it. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment if you liked it or if you would like to give constructive criticism, and subscribe if you want to be notified when I update! I love this pairing and I love Yuri on Ice and I'm looking forward to writing more about these two. :) 
> 
> Chapter titles (and the title of the fic, for that matter) are going to be from the U2 song, _This is Where You Can Reach Me Now_.
> 
> I am told that Plyusha, which is the name of Yuri's cat, is something approximating a cinnamon roll. If there are any Russian speakers, I'd love to know if this is true!


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